Friday, 30 May 2014

During World War II the
Spanish dictator Franco, wishing to repay the kindness shown by Nazi
Germany during the Spanish Civil War, organised a full division of
volunteers (Division Azul, or the Blue Division) who served in the
Wehrmacht, with the proviso they would only fight on the eastern
front against the godless Bolsheviks, and not again Spain's western
European neighbours. Although their name came from the distinctive
blue uniform blouses, a hold-over from the Falangists, in the field
they fought in German uniforms.

This little-known bit
of history forms the background to the 2011 Spanish film Frozen
Silence (in Spanish, Silencio en la Nieve, Silence in the
Winter, not as good a title), set in 1943, as the Blue Division takes
part in the siege of Leningrad. In the midst of the terrible Russian
winter, a body turns up with its throat slashed and an inscription
carved into its chest. As it happens, one of the privates on hand,
Arturo Andrade (Juan Diego Botto) was a police detective, and he is
soon given the assignment to find the killer. Who soon, as it
happens, turns into a serial killer. Is he a hidden 'red'? A mason
conducting some weird ritual? Or is something else, perhaps more
sinister, going on?

The strongest part of
the film is the setting, particularly the opening, when the body is
discovered in the midst of group of horses frozen in a lake.
Occasionally in the film there are shots of stark contrast, of cold
power, but sadly, not often enough. That mirrors the basic problem of
the movie: it's a who-dun-it whose plot is very much
mechanical—hence, the action often bogs down into Andrade, and his
sympathetic sergeant Espinoza (Carmelo Gomez), travelling back and
forth along the front, asking questions, and travelling back.

A serial killer on the
loose might have been pushed over the edge by the horrors of war, or
by the grinding assault of winter itself; for Andrade, trying to
manoeuvre through the military bureaucracy while dealing with the
brutal murders, might be enough to push himself over the edge as
well. But we never get that far, and, oddly enough, combat is kept in
the distance. The winter itself comes and goes: conditions seem
arctic at times, at other times it's a very mild sunny time, which
might herald the return of spring and fighting, but I'm not sure any
such symbolism was intended.

So director Gerardo
Herrero and screenwriter Nicholas Saad give us scenes intended to
flesh the story out. The film was adapted from a novel by Ignacio del
Valle (El Tiempo de los Emperadores Extranos, or
The Time Of The Foreign Emperors, which implies a different sort of
story altogether) and I don't know how
much was adapted and how much was invented. But there is one sub-plot
involving a Russian roulette tournament—when in Russia, do as Deer
Hunters do—which doesn't seem particularly original or authentic:
the soldiers' situation hasn't reached that hopelessness as dar as we
can see. There is another sub-plot involving a nascent love affair
between Andrade and a local woman (played mostly in silence, because
neither knows the other's language) by the lovely Lithuanian actress
Gabriele Malinauskaite. It then turns out she is the mother of the
boy, Sasha, whom Andrade has already befriended. And in a third
subplot, the Germans come along and start killing the locals,
including threatening Sasha, and putting those nice Spanish
falangists into conflict with the nasty Nazis. Their niceness is indicated by the hats they wear instead of their Nazi helmets most of the time: a fashionable furry flap number for Espinoza, a wool toque for Andrade.

Andrade manages to
solve the crimes before the Soviet air force intervenes, with a
little bit of help from a friendly mailbag being driven by a friendly
truck driver who seems to exist as a plot device—I kept waiting for
him to turn evil. A number of plot elements are left hanging, particularly the most gruesome part of the Masonic red herring.The killing turns out to have had a more personal
motive, something that goes back to the days of the Civil War, but
the real villain of the piece walks away unscathed. At least until
the Red Army attacks, and the film's ending is left appropriately
dark, if open-ended.

The leads are very good, and the supporting cast is for the most part excellent; there are
little bits of Paths Of Glory in
the attitudes of the officers, Adolfo Fernandez as the commandant and
Victor Clavijo as the clerk-sergeant are particularly good. But as a
war movie, it's always going to be held back by the Columbo-like
structure of the who-dun-it, and I'm not quite sure how that problem
might be solved. It also tends to make the Russian front look too beautiful; as it happens I recently watched The World At War episode 'Barbarossa', and the 'reality' in grainy black and white footage, is shocking. In the end, Winter Silence is eminently watchable, but in the end, like light
snow that doesn't stick.

If you're one of the readers of this blog interested in American football, and you haven't seen this already at nfluk.com, my off-season Friday Monthly Tight End column has been posted there. In it I look back at the draft, with special attention to the fate of the big-name quarterbacks, and the changing nature of the wide receiver and running back positions. You can link to it here...

Thursday, 29 May 2014

My obit of Malcolm Glazer, owner of both the Tampa Bay Buccaneers of the NFL and Manchester United of the EPL, is in today's Guardian. It's a joint effort with Gavin McOwan, with his handling the relationship with United and my approaching it from the US and business side. You can link to it here.

What's interesting, in the use of leveraged buyout in English football, is the fact that the NFL, even 20 years ago when Glazer bought the Bucs, would not allow such tactics to be used. The price was 'only' $192 million (a record, as I said, at the time) and the Glazers tried to raise just under a third of it with the sale of Houlihans from one company they owned to another. But Houlihans stock holders would not stand for that.

United's stockholders had no such ability, or indeed desire, to halt Glazer. His purchases of shares were driving the price up, which of course provided him with his safety net should he not wind up buying the team: his profits would pay off his lenders.

One thing cut from the piece was my original lede, which referred to 'knee-jerk' anti-Americanism in the response of United fans. Like London itself, English football has been purchased, bit by bit, by foreigners, starting with Fayed, moving through debt-ridden Icelanders and Norwegians, and including all sorts of other super-rich entrepreneurs. But like complaints about Americans calling football by the English term, 'soccer', the Glazers, and to be fair their methods, hit a nerve.

But in reality the fans basked in success, and went along at MUFC with the same kind of rip-offs that exist across football: the rising prices of tickets, the team shirt scams, whatever, because that's what fans do, and the Glazers were smart renough to keep Alec Ferguson, the greatest manager of his generation, in place and get another five titles. As Gavin notes, with lack of such success last year, the axe fell on David Moyes immediately, and if there is no return to Ferguson-like prowress, the Glazers will start to feel the heat.

But that, of course, is nothing to do really with debt service. In fact, English clubs have always been owned by men who made profit off the backs of the fans, and pace Gary Imlach, in the old days off the backs of the players as well, and kept it for themselves. There are now those who will spend without thought for profit, turning the EPL into their own fantasy league, but the fans don't mind that. There are those who do things like try to change a team's name or colours, and with justification the fans hate that.

I do not admire the leveraged buyout, nor its use in football. But the Glazers simply used a more advanced version of what football's owners have done since clubs turned into businesses with owners. Fans like to pretend they are not, but that's what they are. They are often just owned badly, which is why English clubs go bankrupt, and why EPL teams were such an undervalued asset in the first place. It has always been a different game for those in the boxes and those in the terraces, and all-seater stadia haven't changed that.

As I said on the World Service last night, Malcolm Glazer's legacy here will be that leveraged buyout. I should have added it ought to be the lifting of the curtain covering the distance between the business of football and its fans.

Wednesday, 28 May 2014

At the same time I wrote the appreciation of John and his detective Charlie Resnick, I also chose the five best of the 12 Resnick novels (and a bonus non-Resnick selection) which has been published at the Dead Good Reads website. You can link to that here. I'd like to say there's something surprising, or controversial, in my choices, but there's not. It does reflect the fact that, as far as I can see from my reading, John's writing continued to grow and deepen as the series went along. For a guy with over 100 novels under his belt, that is a remarkable achievement. Enjoy--a review of Darkness, Darkness will be posted here soon...

I've written a heartfelt appreciation of John Harvey, and his best-known character, Charlie Resnick on the occasion of the publication of the 12th, and apparently last, Resnick novel, Darkness, Darkness. You can find the piece at the Windmill Books website, here, and I'd suggest reading all the way to the end, and following the link to the wonderful John Coltrane version of Tadd Dameron's 'Good Bait', to which I refer in the text (Resnick prefers Eric Dolphy's version, by the way). Ave et vale, Resnick.

UPDATE: The link above no long seems to work, so I've decided to post the original piece I wrote for Windmill Books below, along with the choice of the five best Resnick novels which I did at the same time, and whose link (in the post that follows this one) does appear to be working still....

THE DOWNBEAT BEAUTY OF JOHN HARVEY'S
CHARLIE RESNICK

Darkness, Darkness is the twelfth, and
last, of John Harvey's Charlie Resnick novels (though, in fairness,
we thought the tenth, Last Rites, brought the series to an end back
in 1998!). It is elegaic, but it's also fresh; as the discovery of a
corpse takes the aging Resnick back to the miner's strike of 1984, a
defining time for a Britain in transition, and especially so for
Resnick's Nottingham. It is the genius of John Harvey that he is able
to make the reader feel the turmoil of the time by focusing on the
people around the crime, making the giant tragedy and the smaller one
work hand-in-hand to create a powerful look back.

Harvey broke new, hard-boiled, ground
with the first Resnick novel, Lonely Hearts, in 1989. Nine more
followed, like clockwork, one each year. Their influence was immense.
Resnick was the spark behind Ian Rankin's Rebus, Mark Billingham's
Thorne, Graham Hurley's Faraday and Winter, and many more of our now
best-loved detectives. He reclaimed Britain's mean streets for the
sorts of people who walked them, and the sorts of criminals who
preyed there. And it didn't hurt that, in Tom Wilkinson, the BBC
found the perfect Resnick for the hugely successful adaptations of
Lonely Hearts and Rough Treatment, for which Harvey did the
screenplays.

There has never been a detective less
superhuman, nor more human, than Charlie Resnick. Wilkinson
understood instinctively that Resnick was defined by an essential
loneliness. In many ways he was the antidote to Inspector Morse,
trading the lofty spires of an idealised Oxford for Nottingham's damp
grey streets. Morse had his opera, Resnick played classic jazz. Morse
did cryptic crosswords, Resnick constructed monkey-puzzle sandwiches.
Morse read poetry, Resnick enjoyed the shaky free verse of Notts
County football club. Resnick showed the influence of American
hard-boiled classics, of Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe or
Dashiell Hammett's Continental Op, but more crucially he was a direct
descendant of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo's Swedish detective Martin
Beck. Like Beck he is a loner forced to work in a team context. Like
Sjowall and Wahloo, Harvey uses Resnick's stories to reflect on
changes in society, and contradictions between appearance and reality
(interestingly the Beck series was consciously planned to run for ten
novels, just as Resnick originally seemed to be). Beck is an
obsessive who finds his quest for solutions, for truth often at odds
with the reality of his job. And with the reality of his life.

And this is where Harvey excels,
because I can think of no novelist who's been better at using the
story of the crimes being investigated to reflect on the personal
situations of the people doing the investigating. The human
dimensions of his stories remain unchanged, regardless of the
setting, and there's a persistent quality which Michael Connelly once
described as 'wistful' about them. They contain a mirroring of the
human condition expressed through violence, and more tellingly
through emotional pain, inflicted, suffered, repressed, endured. Few
writers have used the framework of the crime novel more poetically.

It was through poetry that I first
encountered John Harvey, more than 30 years ago when he published
some of my poems in his excellent magazine, Slow Dancer. It took me a
while to connect him with the author of a couple of fine stand-alone
crime novels, Frame (1979) and Blind (1981), but by the time I began
reviewing Resnick novels, I'd discovered John had also been one of
the last of the great pulp novelists—churning out paperback
originals at a peak rate of one per month. It was an apprenticeship
that makes Darkness, Darkness his 102nd novel, more or less, counting
those written by Thom Ryder, Terry Lennox, Jon Barton, James Mann and
a handful of other pseudonyms. He wrote everything from biker
adventures to teenaged stories of The Tempest Twins; from the
novelisation of Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo to ten westerns inspired
by Sergio Leone about a gunfighter called Hart the Regulator. I
confess proudly that I assembled a complete set of them. And before
writing this, I searched out a copy of Amphetamines And Pearls, the
first of four Scott Mitchell detective novels, a pulpy precursor of
Resnick, with much of the darkness but less of the jazz.

Reading Darkness, Darkness, I was
reminded of a night about eight years ago when I bumped into John at
the Borderline, where the American singer-songwriter John Stewart was
playing on what obviously would be his last UK tour. Stewart's songs
provided titles for a couple of John's pulp novels (and for my own
blog), and as an encore he performed 'Mother Country', a song about a
horse-breeder who's going blind and wants to ride his favourite horse
one more time. Walking out, we shared our immense sadness, and the
sense that Stewart himself was singing with the same knowledge we
shared. And that is the quality John Harvey brings to this final
Resnick novel, a finish not of melodramatic incident, but of honest
and poignant reflection on the way life is, and the way we live it.

In 2011 John published Good Bait, a
non-Resnick novel whose title comes from a classic Tadd Dameron jazz
song. My favourite version is John Coltrane's on Blue Train, where
the tune tries to escape itself, be free and happy, but can't quite
shake its way out of the blues. That's how I see Charlie Resnick, and
how I think he sees his life as he's lived it. As John Harvey has
written it so well.

THE FIVE BEST RESNICKS

If you're coming to Darkness, Darkness
as your first Resnick, I envy you, because you

have the whole series to work through.
I'd go beginning to end, without waiting a year at a time for the
first ten, then ten years for the next, but if you insist on the
highlights, try these five, listed in order of publication:

Lonely Hearts (1989) The first,
and still one of the best. Introduces and establishes his unique
character in a novel that the Times called one of the 100 best crime
novels of the century. It's the book where Harvey finally relaxed
from his feverish pace of writing, and gave his characters and
setting more depth, and the result was stunning.

Wasted Years (1993) In which a
series of brutal robberies forces Charlie to face events from ten
years before: an incident he'd tried to forget, and a marriage he'd
lost.

Still Water (1997): Perhaps the
best illustration of the way Harvey uses the criminal investigation
to mirror the lives of his characters. A woman's body found floating
in a Nottingham canal reminds Resnick of a similar killing that
dragged him from a Milt Jackson concert many years before. And the
nature of the sex crimes reflects the relationship problems of some
of the detectives involved.

Last Rites (1998): In its own way
more elegiac than Darkness, Darkness, as Resnick deals with two drug
gangs involved in a turf war, and pursues an escaped murderer, and
tries to protect his sister. It's a novel about the things love
forces us to do, and about the loss of such love.

Darkness, Darkness (2014): Alone
after the death of his partner Lynn, Resnick is presented with a
thirty-year old murder which took place in the midst of the violent
chaos of the miner's strike, forcing him to revisit those times
while trying to solve the murder today.

And if you have already read Darkness,
Darkness, then treat yourself to at least one non-Resnick novel: In
A True Light (2001), the story of Sloane, an art forger, which
encompasses abstract expressionism, jazz, family relations, and a
man finding himself all in one perfectly formed novel.

Monday, 12 May 2014

My obituary of Al
Feldstein, the editor/writer at EC Comics, and for three decades, at
Mad Magazine, is up at the Guardian web site (link here), and should
be in the paper paper soon. I wrote it ten days ago while I was in
the States, and it appears now pretty much as written.

I concentrated on Mad
because that's his wider significance, and what readers would
recognise, but I would have loved more space for his work with EC,
which in its own way was just as significant, and crucial in comics
history.

Feldstein caught
Bill Gaines' attention because of his 'headlights', which was 50s
slang for the pin-up style embonpoint he drew on his women. It was
designed to attract boys to the high school and romance comics which
were considered the girls domain (and then, as now, it was adolescent
boys who drove the comics market). The Guardian cut the headlights
reference out. His talent remained crucial, especially for the covers
of the science-fiction comics, as his well-endowed space maidens
faced off against Cthulu-influenced bug-eyed monsters with lots of
tentacles.

Gaines, who'd inherited
the business from his father, was overweight, and took diet pills,
which were speed, so he was insomniac as well. He'd stay up nights
pouring through science fiction, horror, and pulp novels, and then
borrow plot ideas liberally from them. Ray Bradbury famously
recognised two of his stories cannibalised into one by EC; he called
for payment and wound up recommending other stories they could adapt,
and wound up often being flagged on the covers for those adaptations.
Gaines and Feldstein would brainstorm stories which Feldstein then
wrote; virtually all the stories in 5 or 6 comics a month. I was
fascinated to discover that they had attended together a writing
course taught by Theodore Sturgeon, arguably the best sf writer of
the Fifties. I couldn't say that I'd sensed a Sturgeon influence in
Feldstein's EC work, though Bradbury's is indeed often apparent.

What was important was
first the way Gaines stood up to the censors, until it almost broke
him, and second, especially in the context of Mad, the social
consciousness those EC comics, grisly and violent as they could be,
often exhibited. This came from Gaines and from Feldstein, and if
anything intensified as the persecution of comics grew.

I mentioned Bernie
Krigstein's story 'Master Race', whichappeared in Impact, and is considered a classic not
just for its subject matter but also for the cinematic way Krigstein
told the story, especially the scenes in the New York subway. It was
supposed to be a six-page story, but Krigstein came back with eight
pages, something artists never did. Feldstein was so taken with them
he adjusted the rest of the book to fit the story.

I could just as easily
have mentioned 'Judgment Day', another classic EC story, a parable of
racism drawn by Joe Orlando. In the story an astronaut from earth
arrives on a planet which has been seeded with robots, to check if
they've evolved enough to be admitted to the 'Galatic Republic'. He
discovers the blue and orange robots are segregated, with the orange
robots living privileged lives while the blues exist on separate but
equal facilities. The astronaut explains
to the robots why they haven't yet qualified for human society, and,
in the final panel, the twist is revealed: the astronaut himself is
black. This was 1953, remember, and the magazine was titled Weird
Fantasy. Gaines had to go head
to head with the nascent Comics Code Authority, who wanted the
astronaut made white, and then, when they gave in to Gaines' threats
to go public, tried to insist EC remove the beads of sweat sparkling
on his face in that final panel. The seeds for Mad Magazine were
planted firmly in EC comics.

As an artist turned
writer/editor Feldstein got the best out of the remarkable stable of
EC and Mad artists, and the work is a pleasure to revisit today. And
as anyone who grew up in the brave new world of post-war America soon realised, Mad's poking gleefully at the edges and under the surfaces, was
givinmg you an indoctrination in what your world was really like. Not just parodies of insipid entertainment, or sleazy politics, or fear-mongering, but things as crucial as the way
advertising bent minds to its own reality. Mad was at the forefront of
the assault on smoking--and had the tobacco industry nailed from the
start (see left).

You might say that Mad laid the groundwork, among kids in the 50s and early 60s, for what is now remembered as a decade of
conflict. But what we really experienced in those times was a sort of transition, from protest to changing life style, and today it really seems to have been a transition from one
kind of conformity to a new kind. I knew there was a good reason why
my parents didn't want me to read Mad. But I don't think it's anywhere
near as subversive now, and it probably wasn't anywhere near as subversive then as we like to think it, and we, were. But when you look at most of the comic entertainment you might well find subversive today, you won't have to dig far to find Mad somewhere at its roots.

Saturday, 10 May 2014

I was reading the New York Review of Books, and was struck by the opening of an article by Jerome Groopman on memory. Describing his waking before dawn on a Sunday to start work on the piece, he makes his way to the kitchen.

"The dark-roast coffee was retrieved from its place in the pantry, four scoops then placed in a filter. While the coffee was brewing, I picked up the New York Times at the door...I prepared an egg-white omelettte and toasted two slices of multigrain bread. After a few sips of coffee, fragments of the night's dream came to mind..."

It's not how I would write it. Note the adjectival specificity. Not 'coffee', but dark-roast coffee. Not 'the paper' or indeed 'the Globe' since Prof. Groopman teaches at Harvard, but The New York Times (it is Sunday, in mitigation). Not 'eggs' but an 'egg-white omelette' and finally not 'toast' but toasted two slices of multigrain bread. It's not brand-name specific, like a Stephen King story, but it has the feel of one of the personal ads in the back of the NYRB, all professorial good taste and healthy options.

The article itself is an interesting review of a number of books about how memory works, and stops working. But Prof. Groopman's dietary preferences come back into focus near the end, as he discusses Alzheimer's disease.

"To be sure, there is merit in seeking environmental factors that affect risk for a disorder like Alzheimer's disease...But in this search we need to be alert to wishful thinking. Identifying something simple in the environment, like junk food, as having a major impact on developing dementia is wonderful to imagine. If true, we could markedly reduce our risk by committing to a lifestyle free of soda, pizza, and French fries."

Wishful thinking indeed! Soda, pizza and French fries sounds like the sort of stuff the creative writing professor discovers in the ice-box of the trailer-park waitress with whom he's having an affair in one of those 'dirty realism' novels from the Reaganite Eighties. But would losing them really be 'wonderful to imagine'? I now feel guilty in admitting that I followed my trip to the Yale Art Gallery last week by sharing a white clam pizza and a pitcher of birch beer with a professor friend at the Modern Apizza. Obviously we undid whatever positive effect walking through Yale had on my brain cells.
It occurs to me it might be even more wonderful were we to discover that Cambridge's dark-roast coffee, egg-white omelettes, and multigrain bread turned out to increase the risk-factor of Alzheimers. And isn't it even more likely that we someday discover the brains of readers of the New York Times have chosen to shut themselves down rather than remember being subjected to the likes of Tom Friedman or David Brooks?

Thursday, 8 May 2014

So you missed some of last month's Oscar winners? You probably also missed last year's blockbuster action smash. And that is what airplane travel is designed to remedy. There are times while flying
when it becomes prudent to find a movie whose plot will keep your attention
without working with the low oxygen in the cabin air to further twist your
brain. Recognisable stars, whose inability to play very far from
their established personae, are a must, because you have to be able
to flow with the character development despite missing crucial bits
of dialogue because only one ear functions on your headset, or the
first officer and head stewardess are hogging the microphone like
neophytes doing their first stand up, or at least one person in
front, behind, or beside you has their own attention span problem and
moves you, bangs you, excuses himself past you, talks through you, at
every possible moment. You'd like a villain who will ham it up and
die with a wry ironic smile of self-deprecation. Maybe a comely woman
or two, one of whom should be eye candy and another who should be one
of a couple of cast members who really can act and be wasted in
supporting roles which seem to have been written by a scripter on
loan from Minecraft.

You are looking for
something like Escape Plan.

It's a buddy picture,
of course, and it seems written as a vehicle for Sylvester Stallone,
as he gets all the good scenes that require minimal dialogue,
although many with eloquent grunts. He plays a prison security expert
who gets himself thrown into stir so he can figure out ways of
breaking out. On behalf of the CIA, represented by comely Catriona
Balfe, he gets himself rendered to a secret prison where he hooks up
with Rottmeyer, supposedly an employee who holds the key to reaching
a criminal mastermind. Rottmeyer is played by Arnold Schwartenegger
who, with Stallone playing straight man, turns into a acting genius;
Tom Hanks overdosed on Human Growth Hormone.

The new-found buddies
team up to thwart evil prison warder Jim Caviezel, who somehow
resists the urge to go full Alan Rickman on his role, and thus imbues
it with an awkward gravitas which never gets resolved fully, because
there is only one way anything ever gets resolved here. Caviezel's
evil henchman is played by Vinnie Jones, the ex-soccer player
best-known for squeezing Paul Gasgoigne's balls, whose presence in
virtually any action movie is a more reliable signifier of schlock
than Chuck Norris could ever dream of being. He's like what Jason
Statham would be if Jason Statham couldn't act as brilliantly as he
does.

The story moves
smoothly enough, there's a small twist midway through and what must
have seemed like a very clever twist closer to the end. But if the
premise is Stallone's ability to plan and execute, he relies to an
extraordinary degree on things he discovers by pure chance after his
plan has broken down. And he is helped immensely by the
deus-ex-machina Sam Neill, a doctor named Kyrie, which may or may not
be metaphoric, disillusioned by his service to Cavaziel, who simply
needs a few stiff drinks and a reminder of his Hippocratic oath to
crucially help Stallone. And the best twist of all is that the Balfe
babe turns out to be Arnold's daughter, not his girlfriend, a rare
piece of generational Hollywood honesty.

It all erupts into
automatic weapons, helicopter gunships, hordes of uniformed minions
mowed down like extras in a Bond movie, flames, tidal waves...you
know, the usual. And a final twist when Stallone's boss, Vincent
D'Onofrio, turns out predictably to be not what he appears to be—he's
too good an actor not to be a plot twist. The other wasted talent is
Amy Ryan, though interestingly, like D'Onofrio, her intensity seems
better suited to the smaller screen, or at least smaller movies,
where her talent isn't subsumed by monosyllables and explosions.

It's directed competently by Mikael Hafstrom, who seems to specialise in horror, which when you look at it, is very close to what this movie is--two action figures trapped in the ultimate haunted house. I was impressed by the design; production designer Barry Chusid plays on the blueprints of the prisons Stallone is breaking down, but works in elements of sf, MC Escher-like, and even musical sets--I kept seeing Elvis doing 'Jailhouse Rock as I was distracted by my mini-bottles of wine. But even on the tiny seat-back screen, he keeps it interesting.

I particularly liked the guards wearing expressionless plastic masks--by coincidence on the return flight I watched the opening 40 minutes or so of Cool Hand Luke. I'd write an extended comparison of the two films, but it would be useless: Luke makes you care about the people (even though I let my melatonin work and went to sleep; but then I've seen it 3-4 times already) while Escape Plan asks you to care only about the plan. Anyway, those masks are the 21st century equivalent of the mirrored shades worn by the chain-gang bosses in that film. But nothing is made of the masks, just as nothing was made of Stallone's rendition. Wider points are beyond the remit of Escape Plan.

So
who cares if the headset is broken, the guy in front keeps changing the angle, and the captain can't make up his mind about wanting those seat belts
buckled because of turbulence? Stallone just fell 100 feet down an
industrial strength air vent, and wasn't hurt at all. What could
happen to us?